


Les Monstres de France

by awenswords



Series: Les Monstres de France [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, F/F, F/M, Mutants, Prison, Unfinished, inspiration from xmen stuff, rated mature for swearing in french and violence, some shipping later if i get around to it, we'll see if i ever finish this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 06:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awenswords/pseuds/awenswords
Summary: ///Enjolras grins again, tilting his head, "Don't you know? We're amis, monsieur. Les Amis de l'ABC." He draws back his hand and drives the knife into the man's chest, a spurt of sticky blood covering his fingers, "Consider this a message from the Amis, Inspector - brûle en enfer, connard."///After a wave of mutations ripples across France, a group of the changed individuals rallied together to oppose the new anti-mutant legislation. These Amis de l'ABC suffer a blow when their leader, Enjolras, a powerful emotion-manipulator, is taken captive and transported to a high-security prison for mutants.





	Les Monstres de France

Enjolras wakes up with blood on his hands. It is drying underneath his fingernails and sticking his clothing to his skin - his paper-thin white shirt is slicked with it, hugging to his slim frame. The blood drips down his arm, splattered over his face. His golden hair is tangled and knotted with dried blood. If he could move, he would curl his knees to his chest and scream because it hurts so much. He doesn't want to move his head to examine his body for fear of making the pressure in his skull pop like a blister. The force is excruciating, rendering him immobile and shaking - with every tremor there's pain lacing through his hand where his thumb is broken, and he's wheezing because of the blood clotting in his nose and the red rings around his throat. He moves to clutch at his head but the slight jostle shatters any illusion of respite, he gasps from the icy pain that ripples through his side.

They - the French correctional officers, that is, the sadists in charge of this prison, this rehabilitation facility - have some sort of pulse or signal that is blocking out any attempts for his people to use their abilities. Their mutations. The droning pain in his head is supposed to damage the brain function that enables him to bend emotions at his will. Or the young woman across the hall, it's supposed to keep her from reading the outcome of every action anyone here makes. It's efficient, painfully so - Enjolras tries to reach out his mind, but the moment he nudges at the guard his mind is cracked with agony, his hands are shaking uncontrollably and his whole body hurts.

If enough pain can trigger a mutation, the French government assumes enough pain can extinguish it.

Eventually, someone will get him.

So he endures it. He keeps silent and stares at the wall, he lowers his head when the guards walk by, he screams when he's shocked or when his bones are crushed. It's monotonous torture. Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting.

Eventually, someone will get him, right?

Time spins by and, at some point, the boy in the cell next to him starts crying and coughing. Enjolras can hear him scratching at the walls, so he drags himself to the corner of his cell and rasps out, "Kid? Listen, kid, calm the fuck down before they kill you."

He hears the kid shake his head, rattling out another breath, "I don't - I can't - everything is spinning away."

Enjolras wants to cry. He softens his voice, "What's your name?"

"Sean. You?"

"Enjolras. Enchanté. Listen, Sean. Deep breaths, okay? Breathe with me," Enjolras inhales and exhales exaggeratedly. "What did they do to you?"

Sean coughs, "My, ah, he stabbed me. The inspector." His voice shakes.

Enjolras aches to reach out and calm his mind, to alleviate his suffering by at least decreasing the fear. He was so good with emotions, so tactful. He could spin a web of happiness over the man, throw in just enough adrenaline to staunch some of the pain. But he's fucking useless right now. And this kid is probably going to die.

Enjolras reaches out a hand through the bars of his cell, and Sean clutches at it with a similarly blood-soaked hand, pale and dotted with reddish-brown freckles. His fingernails are bitten down to stubs. Enjolras cradles his other hand against his chest, curling to protect his broken thumb.

"Where are you from? You sound American."

"Exchange student."

"Why the hell would you travel to France, of all places?" Enjolras asks, incredulous.

He feels Sean shrug, "I got here right after they started with the registration laws, before things got bad. The U.S. government should be negotiating for my release, but...it's been too long."

"Sean? There are people coming to get me, any moment now, and we'll get you out of here."

"Really?" The kid sounds hopeful, thank God.

Enjolras nods, choking on the guilt because there probably isn't anyone coming, "Yes, Sean. We're fighting back. You could join us."

Sean's grip is weakening, and he opens his mouth to respond but an inspector walks by and Enjolras has to drag himself back to his corner to avoid being punished. No interaction allowed. He'll probably be beaten later for talking to the kid, there are plenary of security cameras.

Eventually, he falls asleep. Sean is muttering to himself in the other cell, his noises of pain gradually growing weaker.

He awakens to a slamming on the door. A thin grate opens in the bottom corner of his cell - a meal. His first meal in the past three days. He's been eating the remains of a molding roll of bread that he saved a few weeks ago.

The guard kicks the cell again, "Dévorer, mutie."

Enjolras drags himself over to the rusty tray, "Nique ta mère."

The guard erupts into laughter under Enjolras's glowering, "Gotta lotta attitude, don't you? Putain de mutants."

He walks away, laughing, and Enjolras hunches over his meal. The bread is crawling with weevils, something that would have made Enjolras throw up a month ago but now he will welcome any food. He makes himself eat slowly, dipping the bread in the dish of sour water to soften it. He's missing a back tooth - or rather it was painfully ripped out of his jaw. His gums are still swollen and bleeding. The soggy bread makes him gag but he can't eat otherwise.

Enjolras pours the excess water into a pail that's supposed to be for feces, then pisses in the water bowl - there's no dignity here, but the guards will collect the bowl, then his cell won't smell like urine. He's got a system worked out - he rinses his hands, splashes his face with water, and uses a torn cloth from his pant leg to painstakingly clean all of the wounds dotting his body. He peels off the thin t-shirt and inspects the gash on his side and the small slices dotting his chest. They're scabbing over without infection, but the gash is throbbing and oozing with pus. Enjolras does his best to clean it, gritting his teeth against the pain. He has to be careful with his broken thumb, moving slowly and trying his best not to jostle it. The pressure on his head is relentless, too, and he's wavering out of focus. He reaches back cleans the incision in his neck from the rice-sized tracker that was implanted in him when he first arrived. He can feel it underneath his fingers, a small bump beneath the skin of the back of his neck. He's like a cat that's been chipped. When he gets a sharp enough object, he's going to cut it out. He tried digging at it with his fingernails but he couldn't twist around enough to break the skin.

When he's done, he curls back up on his side and clutches at his head, drifting in and out of consciousness in a dizzying, painful haze. His brief dreams are surreal and frightening. Running through the alleys of Paris, skulls crushing beneath his feet. Pressing himself into a corner to hide from beast-like figures that haunt the room. He slips between wakefulness and a restless sleep. It's impossible to wake up refreshed here, the constant pain in his head is quite literally killing him.

And then it stops.

For a moment, Enjolras panics. He's ripped out of sleep and afraid that it's happened, his mutation is gone, he's powerless.

But the girl in the cell across from him stirs too, a grin spreading on her face. He reaches out with his mind and feels her fear and confusion and, most strongly, her anticipation. The guards don't know what's happened, still pacing the halls, oblivious. Enjolras slams them with fear, brutally ripping away any pleasure or joy in their minds and leaving mind-numbing terror. It's darkly amusing to watch them run to the exit, hands shaking around their weapons, the guns once held at ready. As one, their heads explode. It's gruesome - blood and brain matter splatter the walls, grey-green chunks sliding down Enjolras's face as he watches their bodies drop to the floor.

This is either a radical attack or a liberation. Enjolras bites back his own fear and quells the anxiety of the other inmates. The girl in the other cell rises to her feet, limping towards the cell door. Enjolras remains dormant, curled on his side because he doesn't think he can move much even if he tried to. His head is ringing, feeling empty with the relieved pressure. He's moments away from sinking into unconsciousness.

He hears sets of booted feet run into the room. He can see their legs through his heavy-lidded eyes. He can feel brain matter and blood clinging, sticky and grotesque, to his face.

Someone yells and unlocks the cell door. On instinct, he attacks them with a burst of fear and immediately regrets it, backing up when he recognizes the mind.

"Joly?" He mutters, pushing himself to his knees as the other man crouches beside him.

"That's right," Joly says calmly, reaching out a hand to touch the exposed skin of Enjolras's forearm. Joly closes his eyes and the pain is gone. Enjolras feels numb without it, without the constant agony. Joly, though, doubles over and coughs, blood splattering on the floor, " Putain d'enfer, Enjolras."

It's a pain transfer - that's what Joly does. Now he's sentenced himself to endure the cold ices of Enjolras's pain. Enjolras looks up from where he's crouched on the floor, and there's a hand on his elbow, pulling him to his feet. He leans against the body, looking down to see paint-splattered fingers and the sleeve of a leather jacket.

"Merci, Grantaire," Enjolras mutters, trying to take a step forwards but even though he isn't in pain, he feels drained and his legs shake.

Grantaire reaches out to grasp Joly's wrist, "I'll take it. Give me some of it."

"No, R."

"Damnit, Joly, someone is going to suffer here and it might as well be me." Grantaire's eyes blaze. Joly gives Grantaire a withering look, but in a moment Grantaire doubles over, taking jagged, gasping breaths. There is still pain in Joly's eyes but it's faded to sadness.

"I'm sorry, my friends," Enjolras says, stumbling out of the cell. Jehan Prouvaire stands in the hallway, eyes wide as they survey the carnage that they wrought. There are bodies littered around their feet, heads completely obliterated. They're splattered with blood, staining their patterned pink shirt and overalls covered in buttons and patches.

Jehan looks up at him, and darts forward, embracing Enjolras in a hug, "Enjolras! Salut!"

Enjolras wobbles backward, still very aware of the paint-splattered hand at his elbow. "Thank you, Jehan," he says, blinking back the tears that are prickling in the corner of his eyes, "Il ou elle?"

"Il aujourd'hui."

Enjolras nods, "Comment allez-vous, mon ami?"

They roll their eyes, "How am I? Enjolras, really. You need medical attention." Grantaire nods, black curls bouncing, hand twitching at Enjolras's elbow. Enjolras sighs, the crushing exhaustion comes back, coupled with bitterness. He doesn't want to be pitied.

He clumsily shoves ease at his friends, trying to take the weight off of them. He almost gets away with it, but Jehan scoffs, "Fuck off and let us worry."

Enjolras sulkily withdraws the touch of his mind. He can sense Musichetta too. She's behind him on the ground, arms around Joly.

"You can't take everyone's pain," she says harshly, as she helps Joly to his feet and forces a cane into his hands. It's a curved handle, a detailed magpie head with glittering eyes is gripped beneath his shaking fingers.

"Yes. I can." Joly tries to push past her but his legs buckle. Jehan rushes forward but Musichetta takes his weight and Jehan falls into step behind the pair, snagging his hand against Grantaire's shoulder and pulling them along. 

"No," Enjolras says, "the other boy. Sean."

"Who?" Jehan asks sharply.

Enjolras stumbles towards the next cell, pushing away from the painter. Joly and R hiss in twin noises of pain when Enjolras's foot collides with the ground and his leg threatens to give out. He grabs at the bars of the cell, nudging out with his mind to the boy but he's met with cold blankness. His eyes find dirty red hair, the freckled body, clad in ripped jeans and a denim coat. Sean is eerily still, bloodied hand outreached and twisted. His shirt is dried with blood and purple bruises dot his face, bringing Enjolras's eyes to the blue lips and to meet a pair of milky, unseeing eyes.

Enjolras shakes his head, trying to reach with his mind, trying to send spikes of wakefulness, adrenaline, but the body does not stir. He can sense the anxiety that he's draped over the room, though. Joly's fingers tap nervously against his cane and the girl from the other cell is poised to run.

"Non, Dieu non," Enjolras chokes, "S'il vous plait non."

The boy is broken and dead at Enjolras's feet. He'd promised that Sean would be saved, he'd said help was on the way.

Enjolras tips his head, letting the space between his eyebrows meet a bar of the cell, "Je suis désolé."

Grantaire moves to reach Enjolras's side but lurches to the ground, clearly some pain should be clinging to Enjolras right now but it's stuck with his friends. The girl helps Grantaire to her feet.

Jehan walks softly to Enjolras's side, lightly tapping their fingertips against his in an affectionate gesture. "You can't save everyone," they murmur.

Enjolras stares at the blood trickling from Sean's mouth and wishes that he could. It hurts in a way that Joly can't ease or take from him.

Jehan taps Enjolras again, meeting his eyes when he turns to face them. "Enjolras," they say, sprinkle of freckles waving across their face as muscles pull into an arrangement of sadness. Jehan drags a hand across their face, wiping away the tears that threaten to roll, "Enjolras, you can't save everyone," they repeat, "Please. We have to go."

Enjolras allows himself another moment of weakness before straightening, limping back to the group. Grantaire is at his side once again, concern in the blue eyes that are normally clouded with intoxicated melancholy. He draws Enjolras's arm over his shoulders, "I'm sorry, Enjolras," he says, and Enjolras nods curtly, trying to draw back the energy and strength that he lost months ago. He's losing sensation without pain, feeling too detached from the world - as if his mind is drifting a few meters above his head, in a fog. A daze. It could also be shock, of course. The girl from the other cell is tailing them and talking softly to Jehan. Joly is leaning stiffly on Musichetta, walking with an uncomfortable, painful gait. Enjolras grits his teeth at the thought that Grantaire and Joly are taking the pain for him. He takes a deep breath and reaches out his mind, drawing pain back from Grantaire, grimacing. R gives him a sharp look and opens his mouth to protest, but Enjolras meets his eyes firm and determined. Grantaire looks down and says nothing.

Enjolras is in pain but grounded. Awake, somewhat. Through the pain, he aches to lead.

"Who disabled the security?" He asks, wiping blood from his chin. He can taste the metallic copper in his mouth.

"'Ferre is in the van," Joly wheezes.

Enjolras looks to the girl in the back, "Tell me. What do you do?" 

He wants to make a statement. He wants to terrify the humans in this building. He wants to make them regret locking him up and crushing his brain and killing Sean.

The girl visibly shrinks back into herself, slouching and keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the ground. "I fight, monsieur. And I steal."

"Wonderful. Free the others, madame..."

"Éponine, monsieur."

She unlocks the other cells, and mutants stumble out, blood trailing from their lips. Tails dragging on the ground, wings bloodied and sharp and clipped flightless. A boy's once-fanged teeth are shaved to stubs and a girl's fingers are swollen and declawed. There's a man whose hands a cemented in heavy concrete.

They form a parade, stumbling through the hallways with bloody footprints.

Then they reach the guards. The mutants halt, tensing and moving closer together as the guards drop into formation, guns held and pointing at the group of prisoners.

Enjolras leans to Jehan, "Ne les tuez pas tous. Laissee le chef."

Jehan gives him an odd look. But when they twitch their hand and the guards drop to the ground in a red display of blood, a gyzer or a fountain or a brilliant volcano bursting in its final moments, one man stands, splattered in crimson and snarling. Enjolras hits him with a wall of fear, and Joly leaps into motion, barreling into the man and slamming all of Enjolras's pain into him. The man fires off a hail of bullets before he falls, slipping in the blood of his comrades as his body gives out under the weight of Enjolras's agony.

"Qui es-vous?" He spits, his own blood mixing with the slick floor.

Enjolras grins, teeth stained red like an animal, "Bon soir, monsieur," he says as he steps forward, taking Musichetta's knife as he walks by, "you mean you haven't heard of us?" 

He can sense fear rolling from the man in waves, even after he's withdrawn his own projection. It's so fucking satisfying.

"I'm the Inspector here and I won't be spoken to like this - " he starts but breaks off as Enjolras leans forward, dragging the man up until he's hunched against the wall with Enjolras leaning threateningly over him, golden hair falling over his face.

"J'en ai plus rein à foutre," Enjolras says calmly, forcing himself to be cold and composed.

"Who are you people?" the Inspector growls.

Enjolras grins again, tilting his head, "Don't you know? We're amis, monsieur. Les Amis de l'ABC." He draws back his hand and drives the knife into the man's chest, a spurt of sticky blood covering his fingers, "Consider this a message from the Amis, Inspector - brûle en enfer, connard." He stabs him again, leaving the knife lodged somewhere near his heart. He isn't likely to survive, but hopefully, he will relay the message.

Enjolras wipes his hand off on the inspector's face, leaving the taunting of a bloodied handprint on his face. He steps back and waves for the mutants to keep walking, as he falls in line beside Grantaire.

But Grantaire isn't there.

He's leaned against Éponine, one hand clutching his side, off to the side halfway down the hall. The rest of the Amis are crowded around him, Joly and Jehan and Musichetta. Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief, stumbling over to the painter, but breaks into a limping sprint when he sees the blood seeping between his fingers.

"What happened?" he asks harshly, shouldering between Joly and Jehan to stoop over Grantaire, pulling his hand away from his side and winching at the man's hiss of pain. There's dark blood seeping through a hole in his green shirt, which reveals the scarlet graze of a bullet's trail. It doesn't look like a puncture wound.

Musichetta shoots him a perplexed look, "The Inspector shot him, Enjolras. He was right next to you."

"Putain," Enjolras swears, "we need to get to the van. Now."

Graintaire nods but leans away when Joly reaches out to take his pain, "Piss off, Joly. You're not taking the pain. We're going." He brushes away Joly's hand and Musichetta pulls the former med student back.

Joly looks crestfallen. He feels powerless without the ability to help people, Enjolras can see it in the way he slumps against Musichetta and purses his lips. He was a med student once, working towards his doctorate - but then anti-mutant legislation hit and everything went to hell. A few years into graduate study at Pierre and Marie Curie University, the school adopted a new policy that denied students with so-called "dangerous mutations" enrollment, and Joly, a Class C mutant, was expelled.

But he straightens his back and nods curtly, moving forward into the hall. Enjolras loiters for a moment, half-tempted to go to Grantaire's aid, but with one look at the horde of limping mutants, he decides that leadership wins out over compassion today. He limps to the front of the group, with the feeling of their eyes on his back. As they walk, they unlock more cells and the group grows - but when they hit the exit and the alarms go off, they sprint, leaving behind the Amis and the bodies of the guards that Jehan quietly killed. Éponine stays, keeping Grantaire standing and quietly talking to him. He fishes a flask out of his jacket pocket and takes a swig, shaking out the last few drops.

Enjolras sways on his feet and squints as a van careens around the corner, kicking up gravel into his face. It comes to a harsh stop, skidding, and the driver's side door is flung open. A man tumbles out, and, disoriented, Enjolras takes a half-step back, anticipating a fight. But he's quickly enveloped in warm arms, clutching him like a lifeline. He closes his eyes and lets himself relax for a moment, at the same time he's hyperaware of the fact that he's staining the man's crisp clothing with blood.

"'Ferre?" He croaks, and his friend shifts back to hold Enjolras at arm's length, eyes skirting over the wounds and the blood.

"Enjolras. I am going to tear the gendarmes to shreds." Combeferre grimaces, reaching to draw what Enjolras assumes is a gun.

"No need, mon cher ami. It has been done."

Ferre inclines an eyebrow, opening his mouth to speak before deciding against it and ushering Enjolras into the van. Courfeyrac is in the passenger seat but shifts over to drive when he sees Enjolras slump against Ferre in the back of the car.

Enjolras tips his chin up to look at Combeferre, "There's a tracker in the back of my neck. I tried to get it out, but I can't break the skin enough."

Ferre grits his teeth, "Enjolras - "

"Get your pocket knife out, Grantaire," Enjolras directs sharply, and nods to Ferre.

He braces himself for the pain. There are light, gentle fingers on the back of his neck then the sharp pain that he anticipated, the jolts as Ferre twists R's knife to snag against the tracing chip. He can feel watery blood trickling down his back and focuses on Musichetta's grip around his wrist and the concerned looks of R and Joly. 

He can physically feel the energy and adrenaline steeping away, dragging him down and forcing his eyelids to close with a weight that definitely defies the effect that gravity should be having on his body. 

Then he's being shaken awake, or somewhat awake, and he's fighting back the fog as the car jolts into action. He can hear Joly, his voice raised just above average, giving rapid-fire anxious instructions. In a daze, Enjolras impulsively attempts to draw away the anxiety, and Ferre's hands shake for a moment where they're firmly pressed against his side - when did that happen? - but mutters, "No you don't, Enjolras. Save your energy."

Enjolras sputters, tasting more copper blood in his mouth. He can't talk, and he's fighting his own rising panic, and sends out a wave of confusion. He can feel it wash over the Amis, and Ferre, teeth gritted, sourly muttering, "Why didn't you say you'd been stabbed."

He replies with a wave of generic apologetic confusion, directed at Combeferre. There's a burst of bright and biting concern in response to that, accompanied by the ever-present warm undertones. As it washes over Enjolras, he dizzily spins away on the tail end of a final burst of fear from Ferre.

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Les Monstres de France - The Monsters of France  
> Enchanté - Nice to meet you  
> Dévorer - Eat up  
> Nique ta mère - Go fuck your mother (used as 'fuck off')  
> Putain de mutants - Fucking mutants  
> Putain d'enfer, Enjolras - Fucking hell, Enjolras  
> Merci, Grantaire - Thank you, Grantaire  
> Salut! - Hi! (informal hello)  
> Il ou elle? - He or she? (French is a heavily gendered language, and there is no they/them/theirs pronoun, so here Enjorlas is checking whe Jehan to see how to refer to them when speaking French)  
> Il aujourd'hui - He today  
> Comment allez-vous, mon ami? - How are you, my friend? (this is why Enjolras asked Jehan "Il ou elle?" Jehan said "Il" and thus Enjolras used the masculine "my" ("mon") and "friend" ("ami").)  
> Non, Dieu non - No, God no  
> S'il vous plait non - Please no  
> Je suis désolé - I am sorry  
> Ne les tuez pas tous. Laissee le chef. - Do not kill them all. Leave the leader.  
> Qui es-vous? - Who are you?  
> Bon soir, monsieur - Good evening, sir  
> J'en ai plus rein à foutre - I don't give a fuck  
> Brûle en enfer, connard - Burn in hell, asshole  
> Putain - (literally means "whore", but it's used as "fuck")  
> gendarmes - police / police force  
> Mon cher ami - my dear friend
> 
> ///
> 
> UNITED NATIONS MUTATION CLASSES
> 
> 0 - reality warping
> 
> A - mutations that cause immediate large-scale damage to population (over 1,000 fatalities) or property (over 1,000 acres of property damage, or damage that exceeds the cost of $150,000 per individual property owner), or immediate long-term control or manipulation of population (over 1,000 individuals) or an individual, mind reading, time-travel or time-rewinding
> 
> B - mutations that cause immediate small-scale damage to population (1,000-500 fatalities) or property (1,000-500 acres of property damage, or damage with a cost of $150,000-$50,000 per individual property owner), or immediate short-term control or manipulation of an individual/body of people, immediate physical harm to population (over 1,000 individuals), immediate psychological trauma to population (over 1,000 individuals) that exceeds four months, telekinesis, power to access technological or electric information
> 
> C - mutations that can cause death to an individual, immediate short-term control of another person, immediate damage to individual property (below 20,000 square feet), control over environmental variables (ie water, fire, metal), control over other life-forms (ie plants, animals), physical harm to an individual, psychological trauma to an individual that exceeds four months, enhanced strength or reflexes that exceed what is medically appropriate for an individual of their height, weight, and/or muscle, power to reanimate the deceased 
> 
> D - travel abilities that exceed or match those of the speed of current military jets, allow a person to impersonate the voice, appearance or otherwise resemble another individual, or any low-level invasive mutations (ie emotional state reading, minor physical feature control)
> 
> E - non-invasive mutations that allow for healing abilities over oneself or others, the power to communicate with the deceased or otherwise receive information/knowledge from them, allow for access to parallel dimensions or alternate dimensions, premonition or future-reading abilities
> 
> F - non-invasive and non-threatening mutations (ie flight)
> 
> G - mutations that are purely superficial (ie horns, blue skin)
> 
> Dangerous Mutations: Classes A-C
> 
> The decision for Dangerous Mutants to be deprived of citizenship is a power of individual countries, not the United Nations. They can be exempt from the United Nations' Universal Declaration of Human Rights under the knowledge that they have evolved past the standards of homo sapien classification. This rule does not apply to mutants below Class C, and violations of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights will be reviewed by the judicial system of their respective country.
> 
> Any mutations that allow for a violation of the United Nations' Universal Declaration of Human Rights are immediately considered Dangerous without necessary review.


End file.
